“Janine,” Davall cried as they broke into the office. Janine was standing over a very familiar SS officer, clothed in an oversized shirt that would have been white except for the blood covering her. She pulled her knife out of the monster’s throat. Davall felt conflicted. He had wanted to break him with his own hands, but he was also relieved that Janine was safe. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better,” Janine said, managing a weak smile. Davall’s eyes tracked the bruises on her body and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Her voice hardened into a steely tone. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I see,” Davall said. Whatever Janine had gone though in her final days as a whore, it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. Davall didn’t want to think about what her captor might have done to her. “We have to get out of here!”
Janine picked up a robe, covered herself more appropriately, and followed Davall and his men into the next room. A handful of blonde typists sat there crying. Davall allowed himself a moment of disgust as he saw how the women trembled while Janine had killed her tormentor. He saw the blonde woman who had taken down their details, long ago, and shot her through the head, leaving the others to remain behind in the burning barracks. The Germans would be trying to organise a counter-attack, but as long as they didn’t know what was happening for certain, there was still a chance to escape.
He caught Janine’s eye and winked at her. One way or another, the Reich’s occupation of Felixstowe would never recover from what they’d done and maybe they would be able to escape completely before it was too late. They ran down the stairs, hearing shooting and explosions from all over the town, and escaped out the back gates as the Germans attacked the front, trying to recapture the barracks.
“Run,” he ordered shortly and caught Janine’s hand. It would be unsafe in the extreme to be caught out in the open in German uniforms; they’d have both sides out for their blood. “Keep running and don’t look back!”
It wasn’t, as Monty acknowledged privately, the most organised assault the British Army had ever mounted, but once they punched through the Colchester Line, the British Army regrouped and pushed on northwards towards the Ipswich Line. The Germans were on the retreat, hounded and harried by the British as they thrust forward to trap and destroy any stragglers. As they broke though the defences, the opposition tailed off. British tanks raced to the north, rumbling through towns and villages with bemused inhabitants holding out flowers and British flags for their liberators, trying to thrust as far north as possible before the Germans could regroup. In the wake of the armour, the infantry advanced, securing vital locations, clearing minefields. Along the way they were meeting up with insurgents and commandos for the final stage of the battle.
In his headquarters, Monty watched as the German lines formed around Ipswich and braced himself for the result of the final confrontation. He had learned his art in the desert, and then through endless exercises with his forces, but now he knew the cost of the coming offensive. If he won the battle, he would win the campaign, but the cost would be horrific. He’d stopped answering Churchill’s calls. Like him, all the Prime Minister could do now was wait.
The radio from Berlin cut in and out, but the gist of the message was clear. No German Field Marshal had ever surrendered before, and Rommel was absolutely forbidden to be the first. Hitler had spoken on Radio Berlin himself, warning the Reich of hard days of struggle ahead and inviting the people of Germany to join him in believing that the legendary Rommel could draw victory from the very jaws of defeat. Baeck watched Rommel, knowing as much as Rommel himself about their position, and saw no way out of the trap.
“No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered,” Rommel said slowly. His eyes looked down at the map, perhaps matching it to his memories of the combat zone and seeing only darkness. He understood what the situation meant. “No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered.”
“No,” Baeck agreed morosely. He was tempted to make a remark about there always being a first time, but there was little point; he needed, the Reich needed, Rommel to be thinking properly. “Is there any way that we can create a victory?”
Rommel shook his head slowly.
“The British are preparing to cut off Ipswich and advance on the port,” he said. “Once that happens, our defeat will become inevitable.”
His lips twitched humourlessly. “There’s little point in continuing the struggle.”
Even though Baeck had known that it was inevitable, he was still shocked to hear Rommel advocating surrender. It wasn’t in his legend. The man who had danced backwards and forwards in North Africa on a shoestring wouldn’t have surrendered.
He groped for words. “Is there truly no hope?”
Rommel nodded.
“Hans, contact the British commander and inform him that I would like to discuss an armistice,” he said. “Johan, inform the Reich that I am surrendering and accept no further calls from Berlin.
Then pass the orders to the defenders on the line and Felixstowe. They are to surrender, hand over their weapons, and comport themselves with the dignity required of German officers and men.”
He pronounced doom in a soft, almost heartbreaking voice. “The Invasion of Britain is at an end.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Felixstowe, England
The British Army entered Felixstowe as the sun slowly set in the sky.
Colonel Harry Jackson looked upon the town he’d known and served in — although he hadn’t liked it much — and felt like crying. Seeing the results of the final struggle for control, a struggle only ended by Rommel’s surrender, almost broke his heart. Buildings had been destroyed, the main street was pockmarked by bullets, and a handful of the town’s notables were hanging from trees, hung by either the Germans or the resistance fighters. It looked as if the Germans would get the blame, but he had his doubts.
The Germans had retreated or surrendered. Some had boarded the final ships and set off across the Channel, trying to escape the vengeance of the British, while others had scattered into the surrounding area, trying to escape and become guerrillas. They would all be rounded up, sooner or later, but until then Felixstowe would remain a dangerous area. Some of them, he suspected, would still be in touch with Berlin and remain underground until the war finally came to an end. Mere hours after Rommel’s surrender had been broadcast, a flight of German bombers had hammered London with impunity, a reminder that the Reich was still across the Channel and the lives of British citizens would be blighted by the threat of war. The Germans, deprived of most of their fleet, would be unable to mount a second invasion in a hurry, but somehow he was sure that they would find other ways to continue the war. They might expand the submarine campaign.
He shook his head. That was well above his pay grade. “Sergeant,” he said as the marching soldiers finally fell out of line. The citizens were happy to see them. Jackson had seen several soldiers kissed by girls and had turned a blind eye for once. They all deserved a treat after so long. “Fall out all the men who have family in the area and inform them that they have five hours of leave to visit them and discover how they are.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilt said, and busied himself issuing orders. “And yourself, sir?”
“Company A, follow me,” Jackson said. Company A was composed largely of regular army soldiers from Newcastle. Instead of visiting relatives, they had less pleasant task to perform. “Keep the remainder of the soldiers on a loose leash at the barracks.”